


Wednesdays and Saturdays

by kay_obsessive



Category: Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog
Genre: Community: jossverse_las, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_obsessive/pseuds/kay_obsessive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He still goes to the laundromat every Wednesday and Saturday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesdays and Saturdays

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: habits

He still goes to the laundromat every Wednesday and Saturday. Even supervillains need clean clothes, and the timeslot is already built into his schedule (it's the only thing in his schedule), so why bother to change it? He supposes he could hire some henchmen to do his more mundane chores – he's the new big thing; anyone in the Union would be lining up for the chance to work with him – but even having Moist around is starting to bother him. (The feeling must be mutual, because Moist spends as much time out of the house as possible.)

He was nervous the first time back, but nobody there pays him any notice. No one stares, or whispers _Dr. Horrible_ under their breath, or does anything more than smile politely when they accidentally make eye contact. It's impossible to see Bad Horse's newest protégé, a remorseless killer, in the awkward young man with the too-large sweatshirt, whose most violent act is to smack the side of the machine when his quarter gets stuck in the slot. There's no risk to his identity, and he's learning to appreciate the task: the mind-numbing monotony, the way everyone completely ignores everyone else, _the feel of warm clothes in your hands…_

Of course, he has to break in after hours to clean his lab coat. The white ones he can get away with during the day if he keeps them bundled, but the bloody scarlet of the new costume is too eye-catching. The whites could be anything, sheets or curtains, just plain sturdy fabric. He's already burned the one that got stained with blood somehow (a heist gone wrong, surely).

But in the daylight it's a simple task. Machine loaded a bit too full, detergent to the fill-line, hot water, high spin. Then wait. Some people leave at this point, run down the block on an errand trusting no one will bother their soapy, dripping clothes, but he never does. He just settles down on the bench against the wall, shoulders hunched and hands in pockets, and lets his gaze drift from his laundry to the door. He hums quietly to himself, some melancholy tune that he really feels he should know the words to, sitting just on the tip of his tongue.

The shrill alarm eventually startles him out of his reverie, cuts off his little melody. He glances in the direction of the washing machine, gives the door one last puzzled frown, and slowly makes his way over to start moving his clothes into the dryer across the aisle.

_Wednesdays and Saturdays_, he thinks as muscle memory takes over and he shakes out damp shirts and socks, _but you've skipped the last two months._  



End file.
